


How (not) to talk to angels

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (mostly Aziraphale), Antony and Cleopatra, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has a Plan, Aziraphale's Bastille shoes, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley projects on to his house plants, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel's only in it for a few seconds, Getting Together, Happy Ending, However the author believes, Lots of references to episode 3 cold open, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), So's Aziraphale but he's hiding it better, Some bookshop fire trauma, Some magical shenanigans, They have issues communicating, Use Your Words, no beta but I've tried my best, rated mature for some naughty innuendo, there are good reasons for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22098640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Aziraphale sets out to seduce Crowley and Crowley is forced to deal with his feelings about that.Or Crowley really, really wants to be seduced, but is too afraid that he’ll mess it all up.  Fortunately or not, Aziraphale has a plan to tackle this and hopefully get them talking.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 299





	1. Rome

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was going to be all from Crowley's pov, but I wanted to write notes for Aziraphale to get the time line sorted. Decided to gratuitously include them because I found him adorable when he was morose and tipsy. Sorry (not really sorry).

Crowley has never really got oysters. Weird fishy little things that aren’t actually fish. Like mussels or clams. Fish with shells. Shell fish. “Molluscs!”

Aziraphale puts down the empty oyster shell and regards Crowley calmly from across the white table cloth. A very slight frown puckers his forehead. “Welcome back, I was wondering where you’d drifted off to.”

Crowley is too triumphant to let Aziraphale’s put out tone derail him. “Molluscs are what oysters are.”

Aziraphale’s frown becomes increasingly perplexed. “Delicious are what they are. Are you sure you won’t try another one?”

Crowley’s heard they're supposed to taste of the sea, but these really just taste of lemon with a touch of garlic. Still, Aziraphale is enjoying them and Crowley is enjoying Aziraphale enjoying them. At least he is now that he’s sorted out their genus.

And Aziraphale does look good tonight. He’s all pampered and glowing. Crowley momentarily indulges in the fantasy that it’s for him. It’s more likely that if you're an angel who’s going to flit to Rome for oysters on a whim because the reviews are spectacular you may as well do it in style. Or what passes for style when your fashion sense is being held to ransom by the 1950s. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale doesn't look as outrageous as he did when he flitted to Paris for crepes. Under the worst tortures Hell has to offer Crowley would still refuse to confess that sometimes he dreams of pink stockings and adorably frivolous shoes.

Sometimes the chains feature too.

Best not dwell on that when out in public.

Crowley tops up Aziraphale’s wine glass and then his own. It’s still new, this being relaxed and being allowed to enjoy things. Specifically, enjoy things with Aziraphale. Crowley has always been wound too tight. Now he slouches back in his chair, not worrying if anyone catches him watching the line of Aziraphale’s throat as he swallows or the way his tongue sweeps over his top lip. Crowley’s tempted to take his glasses off because the humans won’t notice the snake eyes if he doesn’t want them too. Aziraphale will notice though. Not that the snake eyes would bother him, but he knows what Crowley’s glasses mean, and he knows what taking them off means to Crowley and…that’s just another thought to be filed away in the Pandora’s Box of Crowley’s mind.

Crowley chooses an oyster that looks as pearlescent but slightly smaller and therefore more manageable than the others.

“Don’t just gulp it down this time,” Aziraphale says quickly.

“Snake aren’t I? Easier just to swallow.”

Aziraphale’s pale eyebrows lift over his napkin. “I’m sure,” he murmurs in a way that Crowley isn’t sure he was intended to hear. Or was he? Crowley’s cheeks warm up because this is not the first time something of this ilk has happened lately.

The first time Crowley put any innuendo down to wishful thinking on his part, or Aziraphale not really understanding what he’s saying. The thing is though, Aziraphale is not stupid unless he has wilfully decided to be.

Crowley conducts an experiment. He meets Aziraphale’s eyes. “You’ll have to tell me what to do then.” He takes a sip from his glass and waits.

Pink rises at the base of Azirpahale’s throat, but that could be the wine. His eyes flick away and back, but there is no saucy ‘would you like that?’ or ‘don’t mind if I do,’ to accompany it.

Crowley is about to put the whole thing down as a fail when Aziraphale selects his own oyster and says, “You need to chew it. Only a few times to get the flavour, mind. Like this.”

And just like that Crowley gets oysters. He’s been watching Aziraphale eat them for the last thirty minutes but this time it’s a performance. Now that may just be because Aziraphale is showing him how to do it, but there’s far too much eye contact until the oyster is gone. Then Aziraphale hides back behind his napkin.

Crowley’s brain is mush. He’s trying very hard not to think of what it would be like to shuck Aziraphale out of all that beige armour and taste the meat of him.

“Go on then, your turn,” Aziraphale prompts, still dabbing furtively at his mouth.

Crowley’s own oyster has dripped liquor on his cuff. He glares at the stain and it vanishes. Aziraphale is still carrying out covert recconissance from behind the napkin, but it feels like just a tiny bit like a challenge.

Crowley eats the oyster. He forces himself to do it slowly and makes sure to chew it. Still tastes like lemon with a touch of garlic but, “Good,” he manages and Aziraphale’s smile breaks free to light up the restaurant.

“Oh, I’m so pleased you like them!”

“Course I do. Course I like oysters…” Crowley’s heart beat makes itself known, thudding desperately. “Ever since….urm…Rome. Ancient one obviously.” Safe bet for oyster eating, really.

The wattage of Aziraphale’s smile increases, the rose-tinted blush reaches his cheeks. “Yes, AD41 wasn’t it?”

Oh, reminiscing. Crowley can do that. That’s safe ground to be on. “Yes, just before Caligula got himself assassinated.”

“Really, Crowley, it wasn’t like he carelessly tripped and fell on a knife thirty times.”

“He was appalling! Can’t be that appalling without inviting assassination.” As Crowley’s mouth continues to ramble he’s aware that Aziraphale’s sudden stiffness is not entirely to do with indignation on behalf of Caligula. 

No. This has to do with a dingy little place in a back street where the bar maid’s attitude was stronger than the wine and a ‘let me tempt you,’ delivered with a little wiggle. It was the first time Crowley had seen that wiggle. The first time they’d been off duty, so to speak.

He also sometimes dreams about that wiggle, and the things he could do to cause it.

Surely Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s forgotten? They didn’t meet enough times in the early days for Crowley to forget a single one. Even if they’d met more it’s unlikely that Crowley would have forgotten a single one either; there’d just be more shining beads on the rosary of his life that could be worried at when he was feeling particularly morose. Crowley tops up the wine glasses again, Aziraphale’s first of course, to buy himself some time.

This is a Thing.

Why is this a Thing? What is he missing?

The problem about habitually not saying what you mean, or saying what you mean in such a way that it could also mean half a dozen other things, is that sometimes you can have an entire conversation with your best friend and not be entirely certain what is going on.

Crowley settles back in his chair. “Put your holier than thou away, angel. You were the one that thought it would be a good idea to get Nero into music.”

“I thought it would improve him!”

And whatever the Thing was, it slips away while they argue whether an appreciation of good culture is actually capable of a making a tyrant less of a tyrant. 

“The fire was an accident!” Aziraphale nearly whines while they wait for the bill. “Surely no one would ever contemplate burning an entire city, least of all one of Heaven’s souls.”

Crowley’s heart nearly bursts at that. One of Heaven’s. Not ours. Heaven’s. He’s sure he’s grinning when he says, “Pretty sure Emperor Nero isn’t on Heaven’s books.”

Azirpahale sits up primly although he’s biting down on a smile. “Well, neither of us are really in a position to confirm or deny exactly where he ended up, now are we?”

Petronius, Crowley remembers as they step into the balmy arms of evening, that was the name of the oyster man who had run the restaurant Aziraphale dragged him off to in 41. He tries to say it, but his tongue is too thick with wine and Aziraphale has tucked his arm through his as they amble down towards the Tiber constantly perplexed that the roads they remember are no longer there. It’s nice, or whatever the demonic equivalent of nice is, this being relaxed. This being relaxed with Aziraphale.

They rest their elbows on a parapet looking out over the river. Their forearms are touching. Aziraphale’s shoulder rests against Crowley’s and he wonders what it would get for the angel’s head to rest against him too. He’s often thought that Aziraphale is just the right height to tuck his head into Crowley’s neck. Now that would be an experiment worth trying.

“Best sober up before we miracle our way home,” Crowley murmurs. “Don’t wanna end up in the Thames.”

Aziraphale exhales slowly. “It’s such a beautiful night seems a shame to leave.”

“I’m not in a rush to be anywhere.”

Aziraphale hums to himself. His arm stiffens. “There’s a really good hotel near here, you know.”

“Where two rooms have just become miraculously free?”

Aziraphale shifts, his eyes fix on Crowley and there’s a bird like tilt to his head. “Two rooms?” he says. Then, “Let’s see shall we?”

Crowley waves his hand in the universal gesture to lead on. 

It really is a nice hotel, although the foliage in the lobby has been given too much freedom. Crowley glares at it over the top of his glasses while Aziraphale has a friendly chat with the lady at the reception desk.

“There’s only one room.” Aziraphale is slightly breathless despite it being only a few feet from the desk.

“No worries, I can miracle us another.”

“You can’t Crowley, people are coming here on their honey moon and wedding anniversaries. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Since when has Aziraphale cared about that when his own comfort is at stake? Crowley can feel the beginnings of the Thing creeping back along the walls. It’s lurking in the slight worry of Aziraphale’s bottom lip.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa then, it’s not a problem.”

It’s not. Aziraphale will sit up all night reading anyway. 

The other problem with not saying what you mean to a person for six thousand years is that sometimes when you do want to come out and say something it can be really, really difficult to break through that barrier of persistent plausible deniability.

And Crowley’s seen these movies. He knows this trope and he knows exactly what Aziraphale is asking him and why he’s been whisked to Rome for oysters.

And it’d be so easy. They can do this now. If they want to.

And Crowley does want to. 99.9% of him is dancing with joy that this actually could happen, that Aziraphale wants this to happen.

The 0.01% of him that currently has control of his brain is screaming that it’s too soon, and he’s not prepared and he will absolutely fuck this up. After millennia of being told to stay back, slow down and don’t touch Crowley doesn’t know what to do.

Bless it all, Aziraphale is being so brave. He’s stood there in the bright hotel lights wringing his hands and pursing his lips, and Crowley hates himself even as he says, “No problem. I’ll pop back to Mayfair. Meet you for breakfast in the morning.”

Because he can’t make himself say, _“I was prepared to wait until you were ready and had made peace with the fact that you might never be ready which has left me really unprepared for this happening right now.”_

Which is partly the truth, but not all of it.

“If that’s what you want?” Aziraphale murmurs.

 _No. Yes. I don’t know, angel_. There’s a bitter taste in the back of Crowley’s throat. This was not what he’d dreamed about.

But then he’d always dreamed he’d be the one in control and pushing the boundaries. He’d imagined romantic gestures and sweeping Aziraphale off his feet. After so long being the one in pursuit it’s disorientating to suddenly find himself cornered. He thought he’d have more time to get his head straight.

More time to make himself better.

And isn’t that just a kick to the gut?

“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear. I’ll see you soon then.” It’s not a question and Aziraphale’s voice could shatter ice. He’s not angry. Crowley has seen Aziraphale angry in all his bitchy glory and that would be preferable to the way he’s curled in on himself. He looks incredibly weary. Worse, he looks like he understands.

 _You see_ , says the 00.1% of Crowley’s brain still in control. _You’ve fucked it up already._

_Yes, because I listened to you!_

“Night then, angel.”

“Good night, Crowley.”

And Aziraphale leans forward to squeeze Crowley’s forearm before heading back to the reception desk.

Crowley no longer needs a miracle to sober up. Quite the opposite. What he really needs now is another drink.

“Crowley, dear…No. Crowley, dearest. You must know that after all this time…I…That is obviously I…oh bother!”

Aziraphale loosens his bow tie but this does nothing to help him get out the words sticking in his throat. Heaven is no longer listening. Heaven no longer cares. Still, having the words out in the air, even unheard, makes him feel dangerously vulnerable. It’s enough to make him, not sweat because surely angels don’t do that. Perspire maybe? He’s definitely feeling a perspire coming on. He tugs the bow tie free and undoes the top button of his shirt for good measure.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, but there’s such a back log of things he wants to say and still such a fear in his heart that his mouth dries up and they wither on his tongue.

Aziraphale stares morosely out over the Roman skyline. A half empty champagne glass dangles from his fingers. The completely empty, unused one mocks him from the hotel room’s table.

All in all the evening rather went down like a…what was the phrase Crowley had used in Eden? Heavy floating object. A lead zeppelin sounded familiar, was that an idiom at all?

He’s embarrassed to admit it, but Aziraphale can remember very little of that conversation. The anxiety had rather eaten away at his ability to stay present in the moment. Now he wishes he had every word tucked away so he could get them out to hang in the light of day, marvelling at how the colours have changed over time. What he can remember is a cocktail of surprise, relief and gratitude. This was immediately followed by an anxiety chaser because the breath taking feeling of ‘oh, I like you. I really do,’ was instantly overrun by the guilt of, ‘and I’m really not supposed to.’

Ah, yes, guilt and self-loathing. This is well trodden ground. He’s a stupid, soft, old angel He should have known better than to stage this whole debacle just because it was how humans did it. They aren’t humans, despite six thousand years of practise. He’s an idiot. Of course Crowley had fled. Aziraphale has spent so long pushing him away, he can’t expect Crowley to just come running now.

Except that he always has before, hasn’t he?

What had gone wrong this time? It wasn’t that Aziraphale hadn’t been clear, was it?

Well, Crowley wasn’t interested in anything beyond what they had already, which is fine. Aziraphale truly considers himself blessed to have anything with Crowley at all.

Best not wallow in self-pity about it. 

By ten thirty Aziraphale has drunk all the champagne and ordered a second bottle.

By twelve-forty five he’s lounging in the bath cradling a bowl of gelato and watching his toes bob among the bubbles. The point is, his tipsy brain persists, the point is…Dolphins!

This makes him giggle for a full minute.

No! Pull yourself together, principality! The point is that he likes Crowley. He really likes Crowley, and he’s lonely and, and, he knows Crowley. He knows Crowley better than anyone, even himself. And Crowley had not been repulsed or disinterested. He’d been twitchy. Twitchy Crowley means a Crowley dealing with emotions he isn’t yet prepared to handle.

Aziraphale is generally quite good at empathy when he manages to get out of his own head long enough. Now with space and scented bubble bath, and a great deal of alcohol and ice-cream inside him Aziraphale realises that Crowley was somewhat overwhelmed. It was probably a 1967 type of overwhelm.

The problem with a six thousand year illicit friendship-that’s-possibly-grown-into-something-more-when-neither-of-you-were-paying-attention is the threat of imminent death.

Aziraphale blinks at his now wrinkly toes. Yes, that had been a problem, but not the specific one he’s searching for. Besides, they’re being left alone now. Imminent death is no longer a thing. Sorted. Off the thing, table. The problem is that they never really speak to each other. Not properly. Right then. Aziraphale resolves to find some words. If he’s really committed he might actually manage to say them.


	2. Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the theater and a confrontation.

Crowley has a complicated relationship with _Hamlet_. He’s still not a fan of the gloomy ones, but at some stage Hamlet has become ‘their’ play as over the centuries Aziraphale has launched a campaign to convert him. As gloomy ones go, Hamlet isn't bad. There’s a decent sword fight in it for a start and some bits are good enough for a laugh.

Admitting that to Aziraphale though will mean admitting defeat. 

It will also mean Aziraphale might stop taking him out to see it.

So, when Crowley picks up the answer phone message about tickets he presumes there's a new _Hamlet_ treading the boards somewhere. To be fair the message is kind of distracting.

_“Crowley? Crowley? I phoned you didn’t I? Listen, you idiot…Oh bother, it’s this infernal machine again. Look, just tell Crowley I’ve got theatre tickets for next Tuesday night and to pick me up at six.”_

The play isn’t _Hamlet_. It’s _Antony and Cleopatra_.

Another gloomy one. 

“It’s not a gloomy one,” Aziraphale says as Crowley pre-orders the interval drinks. “A tragedy, I mean. It’s more of a history, really. It sits with the Roman plays.”

“By no stretch of the imagination can you call it history, besides star crossed lovers and everyone dies. Tragedy.” Crowley smirks.

“Not everyone dies. Octavius makes it to the end.”

“Most of them die though. Characters that don’t even make it on stage die.”

“Really, my dear, a high body count does not a tragedy make…”

Crowley tries not to let smirk blossom to smile as Aziraphale rolls out Aristotle’s _Poetics_.

It’s like Rome never happened. 

Not that a day doesn’t go by when he isn’t kicking himself over the missed opportunity, but it’s all fine. At least Crowley presumes it is because they haven’t spoken about it and Crowley is happy believing that they don’t need to. It’s probably for the best anyway. No need to ruin a perfectly good six thousand year old friendship with sex is there?

Could have been rubbish. Then where would they have been?

Tangled up naked together in bed, his mind supplies, probably still in Rome and getting ready to try again because _‘practise makes perfect, dear boy.’_

Crowley bites his lip.

He’s afraid it would have been rubbish, but even that treacherous 0.01% of his brain can’t really get behind that belief. Ever since Crowley had seen Aziraphale get every last drop of sauce from a sticky toffee pudding off a spoon he’s been convinced that the angel has _skills_. 

They are just skills in need of re-directing.

“You want ice cream at half time too angel?” Crowley’s a glutton for punishment.

Aziraphale stops expounding on Aristotle and says primly, “It’s not a sporting event, Crowley.”

Crowley leans back on an elbow, lifts his eyebrows.

“Strawberry, please,” Aziraphale huffs and walks away. It’s almost a flounce really, and almost as good as the wiggle.

The house lights go down and Crowley’s quite enjoying himself until he hears _that_ line.

Up on stage Enobarbus continues, “…nor custom stale…”

Yeah, blah, blah. Funny how he always forgets that’s where it ended up.

“Bloody hack,” Crowley whispers on principle.

Aziraphale shushes him, but there’s a smile in it.

Crowley folds his arms, slouching in his seat further so his bony knees push into the back of the chair in front. Hardly anyone is ever brave enough to say anything when he does this. Causing minor discomfort to someone too stupid or polite to do anything about it is a mere distraction though. He’s back with the smell of sawdust and sweet grapes, circling Azirphale who’s pouting prettily over having to ride a horse.

Back then it was sexy to be a poet. It was all swagger and swords and biting your thumb at people. Lots of fertile ground for pride and vanity, that. Pride and vanity: two very bad reasons why he quoted his own scribblings at Aziraphale.

More likely it was the hose. Aziraphale always could carry them off better than Crowley with his stork-like legs. 

Doesn’t matter. To this day he’s never been sure that Aziraphale didn’t think he was talking about Burbage. Or tempting Shakespeare to bugger right off and stop nosing about.

Crowley’s eyes slide sideways, and Aziraphale is not quick enough to avoid being caught turning away.

The Thing is back.

99.9% of Crowley’s brain soars with hope like a Puccini aria, the other 0.01% proceeds to go into melt down about a few lines scrawled on the back of a tradesman’s bill over four hundred years ago because the angel must know they were about him.

If he didn’t they wouldn’t be here. They’d be watching _Much Ado About Nothing_.

Aziraphale glances back, sees Crowley still staring and smiles nervously.

Crowley spends the rest of the first half running scenarios in his head about how to handle a variety of situations that are all equal parts tantalising and terrifying and may be happening before the end of the night.

By the time the curtain comes down for the interval Crowley is a jittery mess. The Thing lurks heavily on his shoulders like the weight of an unspoken expectation that Crowley has no chance of meeting.

Aziraphale is happily asking his opinion on the direction, and not listening to the answers as he has quite strong opinions of his own. Of course he does, but Crowley suspects that these opinions wouldn’t be quite so firmly held if the angel weren’t quite so nervous. He parks Aziraphale on a stool in the corner and fights through to the bar. When he comes back, a glass in each hand and with an individual tub of ice cream balanced between them, he sees his angel is occupied.

Crowley blinks.

At first glance the woman could be mistaken for Aziraphale in one of the rare moments he presents as female. The use of tartan in her dress indicates a woman of a certain age, one who grew up loving horses and traipsing round the family estate in wellington boots. Her eyes though lack any of the angel’s customary twinkle, and any lines in her face appear to be caused more by frowning than laughing.

Crowley’s tongue forks, flicking against the back of his teeth. Oh, she’s a ripe one for Hell. Oozing envy all over the carpet and Aziraphale. She wants what he has, or at least, what she thinks he has. Poor woman doesn’t realise he’s got a six thousand year head start on her in terms of study, and at least four hundred in terms of building up his book collection.

It’s eating her from the inside out though because not only does she want it, but she feels that she is entitled to it. That’s where the envy morphs to bitterness with a tang of hate. Crowley resents her on site because how can someone hate Aziraphale when they’ve spent more than five minutes in his company?

“Alright, angel?” Crowley slithers into the space next to the woman, forcing her to step away. She appears unperturbed.

“This is your..er, young man then, is it Fell?” She forces a smile revealing lipstick on her teeth.

“This is Antony.”

_Antony?_

Although it is also worth noting that Aziraphale has neither confirmed or denied that Crowley is ‘his’, ‘young’ or even a ‘man’.

It’s not outright denial though, so Crowley will take it and be pathetically grateful. He glares at the lady who’s probably called Maud from behind his glasses. She looks like a Maud all stolid and stodgy.

“I was starting to think you were a figment of Fell’s imagination.” Probably Called Maud laughs through her nose. 

“I’m not,” Crowley says and does not care for the way she inspects him as though to make sure he isn’t lying.

“You certainly look real enough. More than can be said for our Fell here. There’s something practically occult about him, I’ve always thought.”

“He’s ethereal,” Crowley snaps.

“Is he? By God? Well, then, if you says so. I’ll be seeing you on Thursday then, Fell.” Here, without any regard for her own safety she steps closer to Azirpahale, nudging Crowley back with the side of her bosom. “Don’t you dare try any funny business this time. You know I’m on to you.”

“My dear lady,” Aziraphale’s spine stiffens giving him an extra few and vitally important centimetres over his adversary. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I rather think you do. How insightful to have met you Antony.” Probably Called Maud stomps off through the crowd.

“Dreadful woman.” Aziraphale helps himself to the ice-cream pot.

“Thursday?” Crowley asks, glaring at the broad, retreating back.

“House clearance. We both have our eyes on a copy of the _Liber Loagaeth_.”

“That’s one of John Dee’s isn’t it?” Crowley hadn’t been that interested in Dee beyond the novelty that he was writing about bothering angels rather than demons with his mystical shenanigans.

“It’s nothing.” Despite it being nothing Aziraphale then proceeds to fill the rest of the interval and most of the ride home with every single detail about both book and house clearance. Crowley tries to listen but the closer they get to the bookshop the more he’s white knuckling the Bentley’s steering wheel. He swings the car into park on the double yellow lines. He may be retired but he still enjoys breaking the rules.

Aziraphale’s words dry up and the silence batters the air around them.

“Crowley, my dear.” Aziraphale worries his lip. Sits up straighter. “Crowley. You must know that I…that is, I had a really lovely evening. Thank you.”

“No problem, angel. I liked all the talking.” He glances sideways.

Aziraphale is adjusting his bow tie. It takes a while before he says, “I noticed you had no opinions on the acting abilities of the snake this time.”

“Well, didn’t want to be petty. It did a pretty good job for twenty centimetres of rubber and suspension of disbelief.”

Aziraphale can’t quite keep his mouth under control. His lips twist into a smile even as he fights to hold them in check. This coaxes a grin from Crowley too and he releases his death grip on the steering wheel.

This is nice, but odd. Normally they’d now discuss business and Aziraphale would use that as an excuse to invite Crowley into the shop. Now there is no business to discuss and Crowley isn’t entirely sure he wants an invitation in tonight. He’s sauntered in uninvited since Rome, but that was on his terms and far outside any possibility that they may have just been on a date first. It hadn’t felt like a date tonight, not in the way Rome had given a dollop of hind sight and some uncomfortable self-awareness, but it had been _Antony and Cleopatra_. So, presuming that Aziraphale knows and understands what Crowley thinks he does it’s enough to make Crowley twitch. When did this get so complicated? It’s making him nostalgic for the days when they were pretending not to like each other.

Aziraphale’s not laughing any more. He’s looking at Crowley speculatively.

It’s not that Crowley doesn’t know what he wants to happen. He has several fantasies in his back pocket, half of which are so embarrassingly filthy that a human could have thought of them and half of which are even more embarrassingly full of soft lighting and rose petals. 

He wants to do this, but he can’t. Sitting in the Bentley across from the book shop reminds him of _‘you go to fast for me, Crowley,’_ and a tartan thermos, and what he did with the contents of that thermos, and that he still arrived here too late.

The one time that Aziraphale truly needed him and he didn’t make it. He’s gripping the steering wheel again and glancing at the bookshop, looming and underlit by the Soho street lights like a medieval church. So solid and whole and real, despite the flames lapping at Crowley’s memory.

Aziraphale leaning forward makes Crowley start back, but the angel just squeezes the top of his thigh and pulls away.

“Crowley, I….that is, I, I really did have a nice time. I’ll see you soon, my dear.” He gets out of the car. Crowley nearly hits a lamp post as he peels away from the curb.

Azirapahle’s back is still pressed against the book shop door as the Bentley’s engine bursts to life. His heart is still banging furiously against his ribs as the sound dies away.

“Crowley,” he mutters to himself. “My dearest you must know that I…” still the words catch in his throat. “Damn.” Aziraphale is rather tempted to stamp his foot. Instead he indulges in some well-chosen curse words that haven’t been properly pronounced since the fifteenth century. Perhaps _Antony and Cleopatra_ had not been as subtle as he thought? Or not subtle enough?

He flexes his fingers to stop his hands worrying together.

The lines from Act 2 are pasted into to the secret scrapbook of Aziraphale’s heart (the one called _‘Evidence to suggest that Crowley does love Aziraphale and Aziraphale is not, in fact, making it all up. Probably’_ ), but why should Crowley remember spouting a tease of poetry more than four hundred years ago. He could have honestly been talking about Burbage, couldn’t he? Young and unsure as he was.

It is not very angelic to cast blame or hold a grudge but, as even Aziraphale has to admit, he can sometimes be very un-angelic. This was one of those times. This was Mildred Chancey’s fault. Coming along with her snide comments and occult conspiracy theories and paying far too much attention to how Aziraphale always manages to win at auctions than is really good for her.

He should just forget about the copy of _Liber Loagaeth_ and take revenge by living his best life, seeing as he’d been rather generously given more time to do so.

That would be the angelic thing to do.

Or he could turn up on Thursday, win every single bloody book at auction and make Mildred Chancey atone for her unkind attitude towards Crowley this evening.

It would be in her best interest. Make her a better person, so to speak.

A plan begins to take shape. One that might just get Crowley back into the more comfortable role of amateur James Bond. One that will mean Aziraphale won’t have to spend the rest of the evening trying and failing to tell every reflective surface in the book shop that he loves Crowley.

Crowley must know. But it’s one thing to know you’re loved and one thing to be told it openly and without fear.

Azirpahale is pretty sure that Crowley loves him, but is fully prepared to swoon like a Gothic heroine if Crowley ever confirms it with actual words. Not that he’d ever want the surprise pastries and spontaneous I-saw-this-obscure-first-edition-and-thought-of-yous to stop.

Still, the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Easten Gate of Eden is not going to give up on either himself or his demon now. Not after all they’d been through and nearly lost. He has faith in them. What they need is just a little bit of a nudge to start the words flowing. Given their clandestine history together dinners and theatre trips are not going to be sufficient motivation to do this. No, something more dramatic is most definitely going to be required.


	3. Shoes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome visitor interrupts an intimate moment. Curse her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am obsessed with the shoes Aziraphale wears in the Bastille. My fics seem to keep coming back to that scene. 
> 
> Also please note the new tags. I started off with a really silly idea and somehow Crowley's angst is taking over. It's not too bad, but it is there more than I thought it would be to start with.

Being in the bookshop is fine. In some ways it’s better than not being in the bookshop because it means Crowley can reach out and touch something solid. He can smell the dust and hear the paper whispering secrets back and forth. Crowley runs a fingertip gently along the spine of some Austens and it almost makes up for not being able to run the same fingertips gently along the spine of Aziraphale.

It’s Friday morning and Aziraphale is hunched over his desk acquainting himself with the acquisitions from Thursday’s house clearance. Those white cotton gloves really shouldn’t look that appealing. It’s the gloves and the spectacles. It’s both, combined with the look of sheer fascinated concentration that puckers Aziraphale’s brow and makes his lips purse. The picture sends Crowley into an all body shiver. Who’d have thought reading could be so very sexy?

Crowley steps over another of the crates that are littering the shop, desperate to find a distraction. He just can’t leave well alone though.

“Are these all books, angel?”

“Hmm?” Azirphale carefully turns a page.

“Are these all books?”

“Sorry?”

“Aziraphale!”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look up.

“Angel, I’m going to that Nordic bakery. You want anything?”

Azirphale turns quickly. “Oh, some cinnamon buns, please dear. Why are you laughing?”

“No reason.” Crowley deadpans. “What’s with all the boxes? Are they all new books? Old books. New to you I mean?”

Aziraphale blinks over his spectacles. “Oh, no. Well some of them. I thought I should have a bit of a clear out. Shut your mouth, Crowley, something might fly in there.”

Crowley shuts his mouth. Aziraphale turns back to his desk.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. If the dawn of a new world isn’t an excuse for a new start I really don’t know what is.” Aziraphale says. “You’re lurking, Crowley, and it’s distracting.”

“There’s boxes all over the sofa.”

“Then make yourself useful and move them. You never know, you might find something interesting.” The last is said as an afterthought as Aziraphale has fallen back into the book, his dreams of cinnamon buns momentarily forgotten.

Crowley begins to move boxes off the sofa. It’s inevitable that he glances in to some of them. The British Museum would faint if they knew about all the knick knacks Aziraphale had wrapped in tissue paper. Crowley nearly faints himself when he catches a glimpse of creamy satin. He carefully unwraps the paper and hooks one of the shoes out. They are slightly worn around the toes and heels but still unmistakably the gorgeously frivolous things Aziraphale was wearing in the Bastille.

“Oh, that’s where they got to.” Aziraphale has pushed his chair back and taken his glasses off.

“You throwing these out?” Crowley is pleased how nonchalant he sounds while thinking, _More importantly do you still have the rest of the outfit?_

“I hadn’t thought about it. Didn’t even know they were in there.” Aziraphale laughs.

It’s that laugh. Nervous and with his eyes unable to stay fixed on one point.

Aziraphale has always been a terrible liar. He’s far better at avoidance and misdirection. The fact that he’s lying now is a Thing.

It’s the Thing. Crowley is powerless to move as Aziraphale crosses the room and takes the shoe from his hand.

“I wonder if they still fit?” Aziraphale takes the shoe’s partner from the box.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Crowley swallows.

“Well it has been a few hundred years.”

“But it’s not like your corporation changes without your say so, is it?”

“Oh, very well, if you insist.” Aziraphale sits down and begins to unlace his brogues.

“I didn’t.” Crowley tries very hard not to smile again. He is also trying very hard not to panic.

Aziraphale wiggles his left foot half way into the corresponding shoe. “You’ll have to help me, I think.”

“Sure.” _Anything you want, angel. Of course_. This is how Crowley ends up on one knee like the prince in a fucking fairy tale holding Azirapahle’s ankle. It’s fine. It’s fine when he has to slide his hand up so his palm is against the lower part of Azirphale’s calf. It’s fine when Aziraphale rests his hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“It’s not going to fit, angel.” Crowley manages to get all the words out and in the right order too.

“Then, push harder.” Aziraphale sounds slightly breathless.

It’s not fine. It’s really not fine. Aziraphale is watching him, his cheeks getting pink. A corresponding flush crawls up the back of Crowley’s neck. He needs to say something suave and witty to break the tension, or cause Aziraphale to throw himself into his arms.

 _‘Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel.’_ Yeah. Maybe not that.

Aziraphale’s pupils are wide. Crowley knows that he could kiss him right now, this moment, and Aziraphale would let him. His chest aches with fondness and want. Fear nudges them both aside.

Who’d have thought paper could make so much noise as it burned. There’s days he still feels that there’s book ash clogging his lungs. They saved the world, sort of, but Crowley constantly feels like he’s balancing on the edge of a precipice. His face contorts into a grimace as he tries to keep back a choke.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale leans forward, palm open to cup Crowley’s face. “Dear?”

A rapid knock makes the bookshop door shake.

“Closed! We are absolutely closed!” Aziraphale shouts.

“Not to me, Mr Fell, I know you’re in there.”

“Oh bother, It’s Mrs Chancey.”

“Who?” Crowley leans back on his toes, disorientated. The book shop is fine. Aziraphale is fine. He can sit here and pretend that he wasn’t too late.

“You remember, my dear, at the theatre. With the horrible tartan skirt.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lift.

“Yes, I know, but it really was dreadful.” Aziraphale miracles his shoes back on. He’s clearly distracted because the miracle works on the Bastille shoes and his brogues stay on the rug. Crowley is ushered to his feet and towards the back door. “Be a dear and get us some cinnamon buns after all? I’ll take care of this. See you soon. Pip pip.”

The door slams in Crowley’s face leaving him stranded in a Soho alleyway. His palms are damp and his breath rattles in and out of his nose. Stupid corporation, needs a bloody good talking too. Speaking of which, why hadn’t Aziraphale just miracled those bloody shoes on in the first place? Instead of contemplating the disturbing array of answers his brain is conjuring, Crowley goes to make all the new dough at the Nordic bakery sink. He buys cinnamon buns too, of course.

Aziraphale jerks open the bookshop's front door making the bell cry out in protest. “How may I help you, Mrs Chancey?” he asks in a tone that suggests help is the very last thing he wants to offer.

Her eyes narrow as her gaze sweeps him from head to foot. It’s then Aziraphale realises that it’s the shoes from the Bastille he’s wearing.

“Well?” he decides to brazen it out. They do mean that he’s taller than Mrs Chancey now and he is very definitely not letting that go to waste. He wasn’t built for looming, but gives it a good go anyway.

“You did something, Fell.”

“I do lots of things, Mrs Chancey. Please be more specific.”

“Let’s start with the _Liber Loagaeth_ then…” she counts off on her fingers every single book that Azirphale won at the house clearance auction. It is not chance that it was every single book that she had wanted.

“And that,” Mrs Chancey concludes, “was despite three internet bidders representing leading American univeristies. And you can’t expect me to believe that poor Professor Watson dropped his paddle by accident.”

“What exactly are you suggesting I am capable of?”

“It’s not you though, is it Fell?” Mrs Chancey leans deliberately into his personal space but her eyes are occupied searching the bookshop shadows over his shoulder. “Is it here?” She asks, both scared and fascinated.

“He prefers male pronouns. Currently.” As adrenalin disperses Aziraphale’s focus returns. He remembers the Plan, and just as Crowley had prompted him to do back in the fourteenth century he opens his consciousness up to her desires. It’s barely a temptation at all, and he barely needs to do anything really. _You just show them how to open the door and let them make the choice about whether they want to go through or not,_ Crowley had said. He hadn’t actually been talking literally at the time, but Aziraphale does have a door and he does have what Mrs Chancey wants on the other side of it.

Aziraphale gives her a moment to wallow in that and let the clawing thing in her soul get more traction.

“Mrs Chancey, It really is a fascinating edition but it’s mine. As is Antony and I would kindly ask you to stop speculating on our relationship which is really none of your concern. If you have any complaints about my behaviour then I suggest you take them to the appropriate authorities and stop wasting my time.”

“Yes.” She deals Aziraphale’s shoes another derogatory glance. “I can see you’re busy. They really don’t go with those trousers, by the way.”

“Thank you for your opinions. Good day.” Aziraphale slams the door, deliberately muttering about stiff hinges and weak locks. Probably going too far that, but she really is dreadful. He’s back in his brogues and at his desk by the time Crowley comes in.

“Did you get rid of the old…?” Crowley’s voice trails off. He inhales. “What did you do to her, angel?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale concentrates really hard on the page before him.

“You tempted her!”

“To go away, Crowley. This is my home and she has no right to come poking around here making accusations.”

Crowley holds up one hand in defeat and the box of buns with the other.

Aziraphale rolls his shoulders. Crowley doesn’t seem inclined to ask any more questions, but still better not to chance it.

“I’ll go and put the kettle on, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale flees to the kitchen and opens the window, just in case that will help whatever sin it is Crowley can smell vanish faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun writing this. Thank you to everyone who is reading and leaving kudos for indulging me.


	4. Blitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley rescues Aziraphale. It's all quite ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took so long to get up. I had it all written then decided the end didn't work as it was and started tweaking. I think it's better now and hope it's what you were all hoping for.
> 
> [This Tumblr post helped with the tweaking](http://tartan-thermos.tumblr.com/post/186511315762/listen-we-all-laugh-at-how-much-mileage)

Crowley notices the leaf on the floor almost as soon as he arrives home. He stays snake-still just looking. The plants around him quiver, but he’s played chicken with things far worse than them. The silence takes on a life of its own, civilisations have lived and died in it before Crowley says, “Who did this?”

Clearly one of the Elephant Ears judging by the shape of the leaf, its position and the way a distinct tremble is emanating from that corner of the room. Crowley picks up the leaf holding it aloft between his index and middle fingers. “Well?”

A shudder runs around the room.

“I’m so disappointed that it has come to this again!” His voice lifts as the day’s confusion and frustration spills out. “How many times do we have to be here? I don’t think I’m being unreasonable asking for your best? Am I? _Am I_?”

He screws the leaf up and throws it in a corner. It doesn’t go far; it is a leaf, after all, but it makes the point.

“You!” he snatches the offending plant from its shelf. “Say goodbye. This one couldn’t cut it. This one has let all the rest of you down. How do you expect to be loved if you keep letting people down? _Grow better!_ ” He’s in the zone now, anger spilling out from all pores. He’s too gone in cathartic release to notice something uncomfortable working its way up through the emotion. “ _Be better or we’re never going to deserve him, are we?”_

The trembling in the room stops. Crowley swings his gaze around, his glare turned up to melting point. “Don’t any of you even _dare_ to mention this again.” 

Crowley doesn’t bother to take the Elephant Ear to the kitchen. With a snort of disgust he drops it back on the shelf. “I’ll deal with you later.” He storms out and pours himself a glass of wine, miracles it into whiskey and goes to sulk in his throne until all self-realisation can no longer breathe under the weight of alcohol. 

Crowley wakes up nine hours later with a crick in his neck and an ominous sense of wrongness in his bones. The physical pain vanishes with a thought but the more insubstantial one remains. He pulls himself up as straight as he’s ever been and blinks. The last dregs of whiskey scurry out of his blood stream.

Yes, there’s definitely a hole in the world where an angel once existed. Crowley’s out of the flat and half way to Soho before his reasoning kicks back in and he can process anything other than, _ohshitohshitohshit._

There’s no smoke, no sirens, just absence. The bookshop door swings open and just as he steps over the threshold Aziraphale’s presence bursts back. Crowley reels, one hand out to steady himself. “Aziraphale?”

And it blinks out again. It’s like ice cold holy water, freezing and burning. “ _Aziraphale!_ ”

Crowley grips the door frame while his friend’s presence flips on and off like there’s a toddler playing with the light switch of his existence. Aziraphale is most definitely not anywhere in the shop. There is a very significant book shaped gap in the middle of his desk surrounded by a magnifying glass and some scribbled notes in Aziraphale’s impeccably neat handwriting which have been cut off mid-sentence. The angel mug has been knocked to the floor. There’s cocoa still in the bottom and the rings on the inside of it suggest that there had been enough left to spill on to the rug. Crowley crouches down, sensing the miracle used to vanish the liquid before it escaped and caused stains.

“Someone is playing silly buggers,” Crowley hisses. He suspects it’s Aziraphale. The lock on the shop’s door shows sign of a forced entry, but it had definitely been miracled locked when Crowley had come in. 

“So you’ve got yourself kidnapped, have you?” Crowley mutters. “Can’t take care of yourself, but the carpet and the books, sure, miracle them safe!”

Crowley ensures the door is locked again on his way back to the Bentley. He drives out of London following the fluctuating signal of Aziraphale’s presence like it’s a beacon. He has nothing else to do on this particular Friday night anyway.

Crowley drives up to a Jacobean pile whose purpose is more intimidation than style. It would scream old money, but that would be vulgar. Instead it presumes you know by sneering at you through its windows. Crowley makes sure he parks at least two of the Bentley’s wheels on the front lawn and sneers back at the mansion until he has located Aziraphale’s position inside. There’s someone with him. Mrs Chancey reeks of triumph.

Right.

Crowley considers manifesting himself right behind her, but that’s too easy. He appears in the corridor instead. A quick glance through the partially open door reveals books, of course. The particular book Aziraphale was obsessed with earlier is open on the desk and the position of Mrs Chancey’s legs, covered in thick, grey tights, indicate she is sat on the side of the desk slightly behind it. Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen, but his presences is still there, then not there, then back again.

“You will summon it for me, Fell.”

“I really wont. He’s not a poodle and he’ll arrive when he’s ready. Probably at the most dramatic moment possible.” This is said very pointedly.

Ah, this would be the nick of time then. Crowley checks to make sure he is wearing his flashiest suit and casually kicks the library door open.

“Hi, angel, thought we had dinner plans?” They didn’t, but it’s an ok line so Crowley goes with it.

Mrs Chancey hops off the desk, pointing her gun at Crowley’s chest.

It probably belonged to her grandfather and had last been fired in World War I. Still, it looks well cared for and she holds it with the confidence of a woman who is entirely comfortable with the idea of scrubbing blood out of her floorboards. Crowley glances at it with the contempt it deserves and then turns his attention back to Aziraphale who is practically glowing with pleasure. 0.01% of Crowley’s brain is still angry and afraid, but the other 99.9% wants to glow right back. This is familiar territory, he knows this script and right now there’s nothing that he can’t deal with if he’s got nice clothes and a lexicon of one liners in his back pocket.

“Got into a spot of bother,” Aziraphale says, but he doesn’t look quite shame-faced enough to be sorry about it. He gestures to the chalk markings circling his feet.

“I’ll say, you vanished. Like you’d been cut out of the Earth, it was just like…” Crowley snaps his jaw shut on that not very heroic statement. He tries to avoid Aziraphale’s eyes, but it’s too late.

The problem, the real problem with knowing someone for six thousand years is, even with the subterfuge and double-talking, that sometimes, when they actually pay attention, they can see right to the very guts of you.

Aziraphale gasps as he realises what he’s done. “Oh, my dear…” It’s the same tone he used in the bookshop when he reached to cup Crowley’s face.

Crowley blinks furiously. “Not in front of the human.”

Aziraphale nods. Straightening his shoulders. “Mrs Chancey is under the impression that I'm a magician and you’re my demonic slave.”

“ _You what?_ ” Crowley’s one-liners are really letting him down this evening.

“And Fell is at my mercy, fiend, so you will now obey my bidding.” Mrs Chancey steps forward gun raised.

“You think I’m a demon and you’re threatening me with and antique service revolver, really?” Crowley dismisses her for the more important matter of being angry with Aziraphale. “Why does she think that, exactly?”

Aziraphale lifts one shoulder in a half shrug and looks at the ceiling.

“And what exactly would you have done if her Enochian had been any good and I couldn’t trace you?”

“I dare say I’d have thought of something,” Aziraphale mutters.

At the same time Mrs Chancey splutters indignantly about her near perfect Enochian.

“Really, madam, this circle couldn’t hold an…an…aardvark. The power keeps dropping out, but it really is just a question of your grammar.” Aziraphale’s voice has gotten softer, suggesting that he can fix all Mrs Chancey’s problems if only she’ll ask. Trust Aziraphale to set up a temptation around proper punctuation. It’s impressively devious, and really quite sexy until Crowley understands exactly what is going on here. The 0.01% of his brain seizes control again and he is quite suddenly as angry as, well, Hell.

“Did you tempt this woman to steal your books?” Crowley accuses.

Aziraphale employs that infuriating half-shrug again. “It was barely a temptation at all, she wanted them so badly and she stole me too.”

“Why?”

“Because, as I said before she thinks you’re my…”

“No, angel. Why did you tempt her?”

“I wanted to talk to you!” Aziraphale huffs.

“Then pick up the bloody phone!”

“Every time I do call you make me talk to that ridiculous voice recording contraption!” Aziraphale’s words are tumbling over each other in his distress. “No, I needed to see you face to face. Somewhere that’s not your flat or the shop where we’re entrenched in old habits, and this is just what we do, isn’t it? It’s what we’ve always done when we haven’t talked properly for a while and needed to. Nothing else was working. I had to try! Honestly, how else was I going to find the courage to say that I love you, you absolute _bloody_ idiot?!”

“ _You what?_ ” This time it’s Mrs Chancey sharing outraged disbelief.

Crowley is slightly busy remembering how to breathe, and that he doesn’t actually have to.

“He’s a demon!” Mrs Chancey accuses.

“And he is my demon, and as I’ve explained before our relationship is really none of your business.”

“Seeing as you’ve staged your dramatic love confession in my library, I rather think it is my business.” Mrs Chancey’s smile is shark-like.

“She’s got a point,” Crowley manages.

“Don’t blame me for this." Aziraphale looks close to stamping his foot. "Honestly, if you’d been paying the slightest bit of attention you would have realised I fell completely, madly in love with you ages ago, you complete fool!” Aziraphale’s brain catches up with his mouth. He slaps both hands over said mouth and glances upwards as though expecting lightning to strike. Nothing happens, or if it did it struck Crowley just under the solar plexus and no one else has noticed.

“Gentleman, this is really…” Mrs Chancey begins.

“ _Shut up!_ ” Aziraphale and Crowley say together.

Aziraphale adjusts his waistcoat. “Madam, I’m sorry you are caught up in this rather dramatic turn of events. If it’s any consolation your Enochian is really not that bad and if you agree to drop this whole matter now we can go through some corrections that will have it tip top in no time.”

Aziraphale waits for the chalk circle’s power to flick off again and then hops over the marks on the floorboards like a schoolgirl jumping a rope.

Mrs Chancey steps back reflexively. “So, you could get out the whole time and you were what? Waiting for him to rescue you?” She looks at Crowley. “And you put up with this?”

“The system works.” Crowley shrugs. Oh, yes, very James Bond.

“Well.” Aziraphale mutters. “If you’re going to put it like that it does sound ridiculous. How about, in exchange for say, letting us both go and urm, not mentioning this little mishap to anyone, I can give you access to a much more impressive preternatural specimen than mine? It’s all there in the _Liber Loagaeth,_ More than happy to show you.”

Crowley sidles up to Aziraphale’s side. “That’s a really, really, bad idea.”

“Really, my dear, what is the point of a temptation if they don’t get what they want at the end of it?” Aziraphale smiles and it is quietly terrifying. “And you do want this, don’t you, Mildred? The power, the knowledge. Don’t you deserve the respect that brings?”

“How can I trust you?” The gun barrel dips slightly.

“I’m afraid there’s no guarantees, but honestly. _My_ demon and I are walking out of here together and the only thing stopping me from sending you somewhere very unpleasant right now is guilt about all the inconvenience I’ve put you too. Although the guilt is only very minor tremors so I suggest you make your decision in five, four…”

Mrs Chancey exchanges the gun in her hand for a pen and notepad.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale takes them, scribbles furiously and then hands it back. “That should do nicely.” He grabs Crowley’s arm. “We are leaving.”

Crowley, who is still trying to catch up with events tries not to faint.

“Just, erm, let us have about an hour head start before you try it. He really is quite powerful, and does not care for us in the slightest. Come along, my dear.” Aziraphale drags Crowley out of the library.

Awkwardness follows them into the Bentley. Fortunately Mrs Chancey doesn’t.

“Well.” Crowley holds the steering wheel and stares at the horizon.

“Quite.” Aziraphale agrees. It hadn’t been a bad plan, not as such. Possibly quite an insensitive one though. He never means to hurt Crowley, he truly doesn’t, and yet somehow it happens just the same.

“So…”

“I…”

They both stop and stare at each other for a beat. There’s a dark, ball of nausea in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, like he’s drunk some bad wine

“That was Gabriel’s signature that you wrote down, wasn’t it?” Crowley asks eventually. 

“I think they deserve each other, don’t you? And he won’t hurt her, but he will make her terribly frustrated.”

“You beautiful bastard,” Crowley laughs. “I love you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale actually clasps a hand to his chest as though that will keep the swell of joy contained. “Good. I’d rather hoped you did.”

“Of course I do.” Crowley says wearily. “You wouldn’t drive me so bloody insane if I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry that I scared you.” He is. So sorry and all the joy still can’t calm the guilt.

“It’s fine.”

They could leave it there. Crowley wouldn't push for more and he might even resurrect his fictional dinner plans. They could go and find a country pub and get sloshed, and it would be lovely, but not what Aziraphale wants. He used to be a warrior and he does have some left over courage lying around somewhere. It’s still terribly hard to say, “No. It’s not fine."

Crowley lifts his glasses so he can rub at his eyes. “No,” he admits. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you…” Aziraphale’s voice dies off. He swallows. “I think that in Rome I was too forward, but I want you to know that I had no expectations. We could have sat on the balcony, or cuddled, or I could have just braided your hair, if you’d wanted.” He can’t bear to see Crowley's face right now. “After that I did try to tell you how I felt, but I was never sure you felt the same. And I was afraid. Tonight I wasn’t terribly certain you would come, but I wanted to see if you did because _if_ you did then I’d know that you at least still valued me. That we were still a team. I know you’ve been incredibly patient with me and I am sorry.”

“You’re completely mad.” Crowley holds his hand out across the space between the front seats. Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. He wiggles forward in his seat and takes it. Their fingers slot together, hands resting palm to palm. _And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,_ Aziraphale thinks and then dismisses it. This story will absolutely _not_ be a gloomy one. Not if he has anything to say on the matter.

“Look, a lot happened the week before the Apocalypse.” Crowley stares out through the window, one forearm braced on the steering wheel. “I’m still catching up. I’m worried that after all we’ve been through I still won’t be good enough.”

Aziraphale lifts their joined hands and brushes his lips over Crowley’s fingers. His heart is lodged in his throat. “Crowley, you’re not a house plant. Please don’t treat yourself like one on my account.”

Crowley laughs, shocked and nervous. “Bastard."

“From you that’s a term of endearment.”

“Bastard.” Crowley says again, and it’s layered with all the affection Aziraphale has ever wanted.

When Crowley lays his free hand against his cheek, Aziraphale is sure he can feel him shaking. At first noses bump and it’s awkward and strange. Aziraphale giggles nervously until their lips slip together. It’s a tender faith this first kiss with near enough six thousand years of unspoken yearning in it. Give it time though. And love, and persistence. It will flourish into something that could melt walls of stone. Aziraphale’s hand wanders from Crowley’s shoulder so his fingers can brush against the softness of his throat. Crowley pulls back just far enough to work off his glasses and toss them on the dashboard. Aziraphale blinks and smiles. “Dearest, you must know that I absolutely adore you.”

“Please don’t. Really out of practise with feeling positive emotions.”

“I’m afraid after so long bottling up how simply gorgeous you are, now that I’ve started telling you I’m not going to be able to stop.”

“Can we at least do it in private?”

“We are in private. Or are you worried we’ll embarrass the Bentley.” Joy has turned to giddy mischief and Aziraphale really can’t help it. “Cupcake?”

“Please. Stop. Talking.” Crowley punctuates each word with kisses that make Aziraphale squirm.

“But we mustn’t stop,” Aziraphale murmurs as Crowley works his way along the angel’s jaw.

“Not going to.”

“Talking. I mean talking! We still have rather a lot of work to do, don’t we?” Aziraphale cups Crowley’s face, guiding it up so their eyes meet again.

There’s a lot between them. Every surface wound created by denied friendship, every dig and jibe, layer upon layer until they’ve grown deep enough to slice hearts. There’s darker hurts too. The ones that they didn’t inflict on each other but have been building up since time began. It won’t be easy, but is anything worth the having?

Aziraphale sees his own determined hope reflected back at him in Crowley’s beautiful eyes.

“When you’re ready to talk of course, but no more hiding from each other, my dear. Please.”

“I’ll try.”

“So will I.”

A fork of lightning rips across the sky behind them.

“Oh, Good Lord, That’ll be Gabriel. Best get a wiggle on.” Aziraphale sits back in his seat.

“I do not, nor have I ever wiggled.” Crowley is trying to sound offended. To Aziraphale he just sounds hopelessly flustered. It’s adorable.

“Have you seen yourself walk?”

“I saunter.”

“Whatever you wish to call it, my dear.”

It seems no matter what changes some things will always be the same. Then because they have changed just a bit Azirpahale allows himself to add, “I think the things you can do with your hips look lovely.”

Crowley bites down on a hiss. “There’s a nice little B and B round here somewhere. You’d like it. Chintz and doilies and knick knacks all over it.”

“And just one room has become miraculously free?”

“Will have by the time we get there. If you’d like?”

“It sounds absolutely splendid.”

“Good because after your idiocy this evening, angel, I’m going to talk your bloody brains out.”

Aziraphale doesn’t think his smile can get any wider until Crowley continues, “And you mentioned hair braiding?”

Back in the library Mildred Chancery opens her eyes to see a strikingly handsome, if somewhat smug looking man in a pale suit. His eyes and tie are violet.

“Excellent. It’s about time. You are now under my command and will share the divine mysteries with me.”

The man frowns. “Not my department I’m afraid, sunshine. And just how did you get the number for my direct line?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love that's been given to this fic. I really appreciate all the time taken to give kudos and comments.


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